Sunday, April 5, 2020
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Monday, January 23, 2017
Saturday, July 16, 2016
How things get better
Things have been tough around the world lately. Lots of shouty words, lots of hurt feelings. And, sadly, lots of tragedy. Just something I've been thinking about.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Soup Hero
We're driving in the car. My wife and mom are in the front. My dad and I are in the back, separated by my daughter, who is in her car seat.
I'm holding my daughter's hand.
She asks for my dad's hand: "Papa, can I see your hand?"
She examines the scars and freckles and protruding veins. He wiggles his fingers to make the veins move like worms, and she giggles.
She's clenching my hand on one side, and his hand on the other, and then she places my hand on top of his hand.
"Hold hands!" she demands. So we hold hands, while she traces veins and scars and freckles over both our hands.
I realize it's been decades since I held my dad's hand. I mean, I like the man. We hug each other (briefly) in greeting. I've shaken his hand here and there, sometimes in jest, sometimes on the way to that half-shake, half-embrace that men do. But it's probably been twenty years since I held my dad's hand the way I hold my daughter's hand.
It was a little strange. Strange because it had been so long, strange because grown men don't usually hold hands. Strange because I felt like I was six again, my hand clasped in his, and his hands were still just like I remembered them - strong, calloused, warm, and gentle.
I'm holding my daughter's hand.
She asks for my dad's hand: "Papa, can I see your hand?"
She examines the scars and freckles and protruding veins. He wiggles his fingers to make the veins move like worms, and she giggles.
She's clenching my hand on one side, and his hand on the other, and then she places my hand on top of his hand.
"Hold hands!" she demands. So we hold hands, while she traces veins and scars and freckles over both our hands.
I realize it's been decades since I held my dad's hand. I mean, I like the man. We hug each other (briefly) in greeting. I've shaken his hand here and there, sometimes in jest, sometimes on the way to that half-shake, half-embrace that men do. But it's probably been twenty years since I held my dad's hand the way I hold my daughter's hand.
It was a little strange. Strange because it had been so long, strange because grown men don't usually hold hands. Strange because I felt like I was six again, my hand clasped in his, and his hands were still just like I remembered them - strong, calloused, warm, and gentle.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
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